B R I G H T M I L K Project

A digital curation of art, philosophy and literature designed to inspire, ignite and engage.2010-present.

December 26, 2014

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He was calling in the bulls from the street.They came like a dark river — a blur of chest and hoof — everything moving, under, splinter — hookedtheir horns through the walls. Light hummedthe holes like yellow jackets. My mouthwas a nest torn empty.

Then, he was at the table.Then, in the pig’s jaws — he was not hungry. He was stop.He was bad apple. He was choking.

So I punched my fists against his stomach.Mars flew outand broke open or bloomed — how many small red eyes shut in that husk?